


Mirror Image

by bittenfeld



Category: David Bowie (Musician), Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Male Slash, Prostitution, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:52:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4970620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day, Jareth is the proprietor of an elegant “club” which caters to rich patrons, fulfilling their every… whim…<br/>Jareth makes it a point never to get personally involved with any of the employees, but one day a new employee catches his eye and just might make him change his mind…</p><p>Final  - Chapter 6:  unfinished bit - there used to be more, but unfortunately those pages were lost to the winds of time...! </p><p>(Disclaimer:  This has nothing to do with “Labyrinth” – I just have a heavy crush on Jareth, so I just use him in a completely different setting.  And I based Paul’s looks on the way David Bowie looked in the 1976 movie, “The Man Who Fell to Earth”.  Thus the title “Mirror Image”….! )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A cry of pain startled Jareth as he strode down the dimly-lit deep-plush carpeted corridor. He looked up at the door numbers to ascertain where the cry had come from.

It had sounded from one of the exam rooms, rooms where new employees of the Club were checked out and tested thoroughly to ensure that they were – to put it euphemistically – ‘clean’, that they would in no way endanger the health of the patrons.

He twisted the doorknob. It was locked.

But of course it should be. No patrons were allowed inside the private offices. The young man being examined deserved privacy. Soon enough the patrons would get a good look at him… but not today.

Another small cry, one of worry, slight anxiety. Jareth unlocked the door and opened it.

“… no, please…” the young man bent face-down naked across the exam table pleaded gently to the two examiners as Jareth entered the clinically white room.

The man holding the boy looked up to see Jareth standing in the room – he’d entered so quietly and the men had been so engrossed in their exam that they hadn't noticed him at first.

“Good evening, sir,” the man greeted.

“Good evening,” Jareth replied, strolling around the table to get a better look at the newcomer. The young man was watching him intently, warily, hopefully.

Jareth’s clothes contrasted starkly with the examiners’ white lab coats: romantic Renaissance poetic costume, white full blouse, lace at the wrists, black velvet bolero, skin-tight white pants that slipped into black thigh-high suede cuffed boots. The outfit compared even more starkly with the young man’s nakedness.

Something about the young man disturbed Jareth. Not his nudity – the concerns of naked men had been the focus of Jareth’s career for the past twenty years. No – something else.

And something besides the fact that the boy’s hair was pink. A deep reddish-orange pink. A color that a punk-rocker might have chosen, although the boy certainly didn’t look like a punk-rocker. Short at the nape, long and brushed back on the top and sides except for the pale towhead streaks framing his face which now hung sweaty in his eyes as he stared up at Jareth.

“Help me,” he asked this stranger before him.

Haunted eyes watched Jareth, slightly shadowed with mascaraed lashes, yet the young man didn’t seem necessarily effeminate. Lips deep pink, probably not natural. But his face was so pale, practically mistakable for albino. His gaunt body, stretched across the table showed no sign of sun-brown.

Jareth didn’t need to stay there to watch the exam. But he didn’t feel like going back to his office just yet either. A bad taste in his mouth. He left the room and turned back into the corridor the way he had just come; the books could wait a little longer. End-of-quarter bookkeeping was always a pain regardless of what business one was in, and Jareth just didn’t feel like doing them right now anyway.

The place was quiet, but that was normal for two o’clock in the afternoon. By five the customers would begin to arrive in force, work-day over, time for relaxation: the doctors, engineers, corporation presidents, who were willing to spend five-hundred dollars for one hour of relaxation.

In fact, Jareth himself had a customer coming in at eight. He’d have to get some work done before then. The customer wanted only a twelve-hour stint this time. Three-thousand dollars. The man’s usual Friday appointment ran twenty-four hours for five-thousand dollars, but end-of-quarter affected bank presidents too, so this week’s pleasure would have to be cut short for business’ sake.

Jareth no longer took hourly stints; he left that to the underlings. He ran the Club (officially titled ‘Emil’s’, but known by everyone as ‘the Club’), now with the senior partner, Emil Roberts. And as an executive now, his job duties no longer included front-line servicing of the clients. He was salaried now. His only continuation of that aspect of the job consisted of servicing four personal long-time clients who had been coming to him for the last six to eight years. They kept weekly or bimonthly appointments just like women with their hairdressers, only these customers paid a hell of a lot more – and got a hell of a lot more too. Jareth made sure they got their money’s worth. To the employees Jareth was absolute dictator; to the guests, abject slave. No hairdresser ever gave this much tender loving care.

A full evening might consist of happy-hour cocktails, just the client and him in the penthouse, while he helped the customer relax from the vigorous strains of the work-day with a light neck-rub or gentle teasing touches or tentative brush of lips. A jocular chat might follow, or perhaps a detailed discussion of the US intervention in the Middle East, or maybe opinions regarding the recent presidential candidate debate ( - Donald Trump - honestly??). Then dinner, either a full-course meal or a simple supper if the guest preferred, with the clients’ menu preferences all kept on file. After-dinner entertainment suited the patron’s taste. The client tonight, Thomas Alexander, favored sharing with Jareth several hours of Wagnerian opera; the weekly Monday guest enjoyed XXX-rated movies – particularly those produced here at the Club by the staff; Mr. Peterson on alternate Thursdays loved to be entertained by Jareth himself dancing, singing, or performing a slow sensual seductive strip-tease before a very private audience of one. Then Jareth would join the client in a warm relaxing bath, bathing him sensually or allowing the guest to bathe him, followed by a mutual massage, and ultimately culminating in the sine qua non: a 3-D Technicolor Fourth-of-July brain-searing fuck.

He didn’t remembering interviewing the boy for a job opening (why did he insist on referring to the new employee as a boy? the young man looked to be over the age of consent, and anyway, all that was always carefully checked with any new hire). Perhaps Emil had hired him just before leaving on his extended vacation – care of the Nevada State authorities.

Jareth was sure he’d’ve remembered those haunting haunted eyes across the table.

The young man seem so gaunt, so frail, so bony, so white. Not necessarily effeminate despite the eye make-up – Jareth wore make-up himself – but very vulnerable. Normally Jareth disliked soft weak vulnerable men; he preferred strong self-confident experienced men like himself… and definitely with more meat on their bones.

But that boy…

Anxiousness tingled at the edge of his brain. Why did he feel so strongly about bedding that boy? As proprietor, he normally got first choice with the new employees anyway, after Emil’s primary interview – oral or otherwise…

But something felt different this time. He felt strange… that slender frail body, those intense eyes locked on his, the white buttocks… He wondered how good the boy tasted…

Damn, he shouldn’t be so obsessed. He’d find out soon enough anyway what the boy was like, just like he did with all the new employees. But right now he had books to balance before Mr. Alexander arrived at eight. An then he’d better spend a little time thinking of some new and creative way to entertain Mr. Alexander tonight – for three-thousand dollars the client deserved a creative change of pace every now and then.

So why was he continuing through the building away from the direction of his office?

Laughter from the game-room across the intersecting corridor interrupted his disturbed meditation. Good – just what he needed to take his mind off the young man.

He pushed open the door and strode in.

The elegantly appointed game-room was aptly named – it offered communal fun and games for those customers who liked to join in with as many participants as possible. For those who preferred private sex, private studios ringed the large meeting hall.

Right now at two in the afternoon, three couples occupied the game-room floor. Evidently these patrons were not troubled by a nine-to-five work-day like the majority of the pay-check slaving population. Three of the Club’s best young men were entertaining the clients enthusiastically.

One couple rolled on velvet cushions in the far corner. The client lay propped on top of blond Seth, pumping like his life depended on it.

Jareth felt his erection swell. He smiled a tight dry smile.

Another patron stood by the wet bar, totally naked, totally enjoying glass of bourbon. Brunet Grant knelt before the man, enjoying a swallow of another kind as he eagerly sucked the man’s cock.

Jareth watched with detached amusement. Not too many years ago, he’d been that young hooker, sucking and fucking anyone who’d pay.

“Jareth,” the third customer in the room called to him. Jareth strolled over to the middle-aged fellow lying on his back on a 500-year-old Persian rug in the center of the floor while a young man worked between his legs. Momentarily the patron ignored the fondling while he grinned up at Jareth.

Jareth smiled dryly down at him, standing over the man’s head, fists on hips, erection prominent through tight pants. “Hello, Mr. Carroll,” he greeted the frequent customer. “I trust you’re enjoying your afternoon? If Charles displeases you in any way, you’ll be sure to let me know, won’t you?”

“Oh, he pleases me just fine,” the man assured, “… but not as well as I bet you could.”

“Oh, is that right, Mr. Carroll?”

“Come down here, Jareth, and teach these boys something.” The man reached up to Jareth’s leg and sensually stroked the inside of Jareth’s left thigh. Jareth stood there patiently amused and allowed the peremptory fondling. The man obviously enjoyed rubbing him intimately, teasing the unattainable, the one employee at the Club whom his five-hundred dollars didn’t buy.

But that didn’t stop the man from trying. “Get down here, Jareth,” he coaxed again. “Take off that pretty costume and join us down here on the floor for a good fuck.” He fingered Jareth’s suede-booted calves, rubbed up and down his thighs, then gripped Jareth’s bulge.

Involuntarily Jareth’s eyes glassed over, visualizing an unbidden image which swelled before him – an image of a young man bent naked over a table, a youth bent naked across Jareth’s lap while Jareth fondled his privates… damn! Suddenly the man’s erotic fingering disturbed him.

“Come on, you blond English god,” the man urged again. “Come down here and let me fuck your brains out.”

A forced casual smile tugged at the corner of Jareth’s lips. “Oh really, Mr. Carroll,” he teased, “do you really think you’re good enough to fuck my brains out?”

That maddening arousing manipulating grip on his balls. God, if the man didn’t quit right now, Jareth was going to surrender to the powerful temptation that needled him tormentingly now to straddle the man’s face, shove his hard swollen throbbing prick into the man’s mouth, and ram and ram until he exploded deep in the man’s throat.

… _and a slender young man lay naked and helpless on Jareth’s bed, and Jareth slid on top of him and rubbed him and fondled him and kissed him_ …

Jareth took the man’s hand in a casual gesture – with as much casualness as he could muster just then – drew it away from his crotch, then squeezed it gently. As he stepped away from the couple, he urged the bronzed Adonis-twin, “Give Mr. Carroll your very best tonight, Charles. Drain him completely dry.”

“I always do, sir,” the young hooker grinned.

Jareth smiled to mask the tension clutching his genitals. Now he had to return to his office and forget this untimely nagging arousal. Quarter-end balancing and auditing didn’t wait on fun and games and sexual consummations.

He got on the elevator, used his key and punched the ‘P’ button for the penthouse above the fifth floor. Never mind that the business office was located on the east end of the second floor.

Entering the penthouse, he strode through the white shag rug of the mahogany-panelled sitting-room into the bedroom, to sprawl spread-eagle face-up on the ivory satin bedspread of the king-sized bed.

… damn! what the hell was interfering with him today? What was he doing in here when he should be in the office? He raised both hands to his head, fingers thrust into the wild towhead mane of hair, squeezing the sides of his head in an attempt to hold his brain together… why… why… who the hell was that boy? Anxiously he massaged his temples, tugged his fingers through the long pale blond shag… _come on, mate, now stop this, stop this, you have accounts to work right now, then a client tonight_ … _get the hell off this bed and get to work!_

But for an hour he lay there staring up at the ceiling. Who the hell _was_ the boy?

Without sitting up, he drew one knee up to his chest to tug off his boot and drop it on the floor. He lay there awhile longer, one boot off and one boot on, not wanting to move for a long while, before repeating the single exercise with his other boot.

Then gathering enough energy to push himself off the bed, he walked into the well-appointed bathroom. There he stood before the full-length mirror and surveyed himself. The black silk-velvet waistcoat was pulled off and discarded to the blue high-low carpet. He then unbuttoned the white ruffled blouse, pulled it out of the waistband of the white satin stretch-pants, then leaned closer to study his face more closely in the mirror.

Most of his pale blond hair was teased into a short tangled shag, interspersed sparsely throughout with long tresses, some shoulder-length, some even nipple-length. High-cheekboned face was only now after forty-two years beginning to show a few lines of age. Slight blush tinged his cheeks a healthy pink, subtle color deepened his lips; make-up, yes, but not really effeminate – Jareth disliked effeminacy. However, there was nothing subtle about his eye make-up at all: mascaraed lashes, stylized theatrical two-toned eye-shadow, pearl-white lids, set off by upswept streaks of dark-blue at the outer corners of his eyes, exotic… erotic for the clients… _Oh damn_.

 _Damn_. How blind could he be? To anyone else in the whole world it was glaringly obvious. Two-tone. Two-toned eyes. Like his own: one blue, one brown. The patrons always mentioned it, most found it quite erotic in its uniqueness, but Jareth had seen it in the mirror every day of his life for forty-two years, and therefore considered it to be perfectly un-noteworthy, even though he was fully aware that no one else had eyes like his.

But someone else did. Someone else. Damn.

He felt like a stupid ass for missing something so absurdly obvious.

He studied his eyes now in the mirror with a new penetrating interest. Not only were they obviously bi-colored, but one pupil – the brown one, the left one – was blown, permanently dilated, had been for twenty years, since a day back in 1966, half his life ago, when he was just a young street-corner hooker, and an overly passionate client had become to unrestrained and enthusiastic in his foreplay and had severely beaten Jareth nearly to death, breaking facial bones in the process and blinding him in the left eye. Jareth had survived the beating, his face was reconstructed – luckily without visible scar – and his vision restored after a long terrifying month, but he would be left with the memento of a blown pupil that would haunt him the rest of his life.

He reached both hands up to his open blouse front. A gold medallion hanging from a gold chain lay between his breasts, the metal warmed by his body heat. He fingered it thoughtfully, seeing it in the mirror, then slid both hands to his breasts. The loose ruffled silk cuffs at his wrists caressed the smooth nearly hairless skin of his chest. He touched his nipples, single fingers gently rubbing each dark aureole against the lighter-skinned pectorals. Mild electric shocks stimulated his genitals from his light teasing touch on his own body.

He rubbed a little harder, massaged more forcibly, his whole breasts, using both fingers and palms; pinched each nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinched again, hard, harder, he wanted it to hurt, he twisted them, pinched them painfully, all the while watching in the mirror, watching his face tighten with pain and concentration and sexual arousal, eyes glassy, sweat beading… his nipples so sensitive, so tender.

The electricity zapping his crotch swelled his prick hard and erect. His hips moved suggestively, pelvis revolving and responding to the erotic pain that he teased his nipples with. He could feel a few warm drops of fluid ooze from his throbbing glans. His breath caught, a trickle of sweat dribbled down between his breasts. But he wasn’t ready to come just yet. He wanted to work some more.

He wanted that boy.

To hell with account close-out, to hell with Mr. Alexander’s eight o’clock appointment, to hell with the fact that as proprietor he always had the inalienable right to sleep with any of the employees anyway, except not tonight because vital paperwork awaited conclusion before tomorrow.

He wanted that boy right now.

Damn! why the obsession?

Again, staring into the mirror, he pinched his own nipples viciously hard, tugged roughly on his sore tits until his sweaty face tightened with pain.

Finally his fingers released their little torture victims and slid down his slick wet skin, down his chest and belly, down beneath the material of his trousers to an even more important object. He side the clinging silk pants down off his buttocks and hips just far enough so he could watch his manipulations in the mirror. Sweat dripped from his face in huge drops, dribbled down his cleavage, shirt clung wetly to his back, tangled towhead locks stuck to his face.

All fingers of both hands gripped his hard swollen cock. Slowly he pumped himself while he watched his mirror image work a two-handed grip up and down its prod. He wanted to feel pain in his prick, a compelling urge to abuse his sex organs right now goaded him. He jerked roughly on the length, and a tiny grunt broke through his tight throat. He thumbed the keenly sensitive glans, pinched it with his thumbnail, and his reflection wavered in a sudden blur of welling tears.

Damn, he was going to fuck that fragile gaunt bi-colored-eyed boy right now, and to hell with everything else!

. . . . .

 _to be continued_ …


	2. Chapter 2

He pulled up his pants, blouse still hanging open, marched out of the bathroom into the bed­room, and picked up the telephone receiver from the set on the nightstand to intercom down to David in Personnel. The intercom line buzzed twice urgently, _dammit, David, where are you, pick up the goddamn phone right now!_

“Yes, sir,” David’s young voice tinged with a Boston accent responded.

Jareth didn’t bother with greeting formalities. “David – that new boy, what’s his name?”

“The one with eyes like yours, sir?”

“Yes, yes, that one, who is he?”

“His name is Paul Windsor. Emil hired him last week. Today is his first day; I believe he is going through the physical and the blood tests this afternoon.”

Nervous tingling energy spilled over into nervous pacing alongside the bed. “Yes, well, find out where he is right now, and have him brought to the penthouse. I want to talk to him.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have him there in just a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Jareth clicked the connection dead, then dialed another number, an outside line. Someone else had to be notified of the sudden change in plans.

“Hello, Thomas?” he greeted the query on the other end. “This is Jareth, yes, hello… listen, I’m very sorry to call on such short notice, but I must ask if we could postpone tonight visit. Quarter-end close-out has hit a few snags and I’m afraid I’m going to have to stay up all night to untangle it.” He thought his little laugh sounded appropriately apologetic. “Yes, that’s true,” he agreed with the client’s remark, “a whorehouse can have computer problems just as much as at the First National Bank. Of course, I will make up for this unfortunate spur-of-the-moment inconvenience. I’ll waive the charge for your next visit, even if you’d like twenty-four hours… no, no, Thomas, I insist, a full courtesy for your next appointment; after all, it’s entirely my fault for inconveniencing you tonight.” – and that _was_ true – “Well, I have next Tuesday and Wednesday free next week, would that suit you?... only twelve hours? oh twenty-four, I insist… no? Well, if you’re sure that’s all you want – yes, not all you want, but all the time you can afford away from the office right now, eh! – very well, I’ll put you down for Tuesday, eight PM as usual?... Very well, I shall see you then. Goodbye, Tho­mas, and again, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience…. All right, goodbye.”

There. That was arranged. Nothing else needed to be changed – the ledger books would sim­ply have to wait until tomorrow morning. Now, if he would just get himself in order before the door­bell buzzed.

The boots, carelessly tossed on the floor by the bed, now got carelessly tossed into the closet. A last look in the bureau mirror to wipe the sweat from his face and tuck the blouse tail back into his pants.

He strolled into the sitting room to await the doorbell. A newspaper on the coffee table attrac­ted his eye. He’d read a little of that before the boy arrived.

The doorbell buzz interrupted him. “Come in,” he called. But the door didn’t open until Jareth crossed the floor and opened it himself.

Pink-haired, bi-color-eyed Paul Windsor stood outside the door, his personnel file in hand. “They told me you wanted to see me,” he announced simply, with an accent that bespoke South Lon­don, and proffered the paperwork.

“Uh, yes, come in.” Jareth took the file, then indicated the interior of the apartment by a wave of a hand. “Come in, be seated, I’d like to speak with you.”

The young man obliged and took a seat gingerly on the edge of the white leather sofa. He was dressed now, in a pale salmon polo-shirt and loose-fitting light-tan slacks. Aside from the pink hair, he looked casually conservative, appropriately attired for a casual interview.

Jareth, on the other hand, didn’t dress the part of the interviewer at all: stockinged feet, ruf­fled blouse open to the waist. The young man noticed, but said nothing. Those penetrating mas­caraed and shadowed eyes just watched Jareth intently as the older man skimmed the personnel file.

“ ‘Paul Michael Windsor’,” Jareth read aloud, “ – this says that you’re twenty-eight years old. Is that a misprint?”

“No,” the young Englishman replied succinctly.

“You don’t look twenty-eight.”

The youth shrugged. “I know.”

Jareth glanced up from the medical reports and Emil’s interview notes. The boy – correction – twenty-eight-year-old man – continued to impale him with a serious stare. According to the medi­cal exam and tests, the subject was clean. Jareth noted that Emil’s standard performance evaluation was missing from the file, and briefly he wondered why.

Jareth laid the folder aside. “What part of London are you from, Paul?”

“Brixton.” Then in an unusually talkative mood, Paul noted: “You’re from Brixton too, aren’t you? You speak like a Brixtoner.”

That made Jareth grin. “You have a very keen ear – I moved away from there years ago. But you’re right, we’re neighbors.”

Now standing before the youth perched anxiously on the edge of the couch, face to face with the boy, Jareth felt the desirous obsession settle solidly in his gut, the foundation of a growing power surge which would culminate in one mind-blowing hard-ass fuck… damn, it had been a long time since he had felt anything this good.

He observed the pink hair, the thin good-looking face accentuated by Fabergé. Paul did not look up at Jareth’s face, but rather stared straight ahead: right in the direction of Jareth’s crotch. Jareth was keenly aware of the tang of his own semen and sweat beneath the spicy after-shave scent. He reached to a caressing hand to the young man’s hair.

Now Paul did look up as Jareth’s fingers slid through the blond-pink tresses. He didn’t pro­test, neither did he respond eagerly. Jareth stepped closer, pushing one knee possessively between Paul’s knees, intimately suggestive, as he finger-combed through Paul’s hair. Then lightly his touch strayed over the young man’s smooth-shaven face; one finger under the chin tilted Paul’s head back slightly. Moist parted lips aroused another quiver of passion in Jareth’s crotch.

Jareth touched Paul’s face near his eyes, thumbed the eyelids open wide to study more closely these strange eyes like his, though in mirrored-reversal: right one brown, left one blue. At first Paul contracted from Jareth’s presuming touch, then nervously allowed Jareth near his eyes.

Jareth wanted the boy naked.

“My partner hired you,” Jareth told him, “then left on holiday without telling me anything about you.” Momentarily he left his guest to pour a couple of glasses of scotch at the wet bar across the room.

“It’s all there,” the young man indicated the personnel file on the coffee table. His breathing gave away his nervousness here with Jareth. “My name is Paul Michael Windsor, I was born in London, England, on July 14, 1958. I’m 178 centimeters, 50 kilograms, my eyes are odd-coloured, and I just arrived in the States three weeks ago. What else would you like to know?”

Jareth brought the drinks back to the couch and sat beside him. “Why do you want this job?” An empty smile tugged at his lips while his eyes keenly perused the young man’s face. The youth’s nervousness amused him.

“I need the money,” Paul admitted simply. With slightly trembling hand he took the proffered shot-glass. “I’m newly-arrived here in the Colonies, I have no family or friends here in America. I need a lot of money quickly.” He drank a good swallow to control his trembling. “I heard about your establishment from some gentleman in another pub a few kilometers down the road… I think I’m pretty enough to do very well at this job.”

Jareth smiled at the young man’s candor. “Did Emil tell you how our employees make money here at the Club? That every week you are expected to turn over the first $2000 for overhead expen­ses, including your room and board here, then for everything over and above that, you are allowed to keep fifty-percent. At the standard rate of $500, our employees’ first four clients pays for their por­tion of the overhead, before they make a cent of their own. Beyond that, they can make very good money, however it’s vital that they build up a large clientele quickly. If you do well at drawing new business here, your percentage will be increased appreciably. Our most successful employees are allowed to keep ninety-percent of their free earnings. But you have to be very good.”

“I know,” the youth reiterated.

Jareth knew he would enjoy watching this new employee service the clients. He often watched, with or without their knowledge. It aroused him, and also let him evaluate who should be rewarded for satisfying the patrons well, and who should be penalized for breaking the house rules. His hand went back to the boy’s hair. He wanted to fuck the young man right here on the couch. “Did Emil also inform you of the house rules?” he inquired. “ – that you must live here at the Club, that you assiduously carry out the clients’ wishes, and that you never share your services with anyone outside the Club? That is the most important service we offer our clients: freedom for worry about disease. The employees are free to bed each other between clients, if they like, and if they have time, and Emil and I are free to bed any of you whenever we choose… And the testing which you under­went today, you’ll repeat at least once a month to ensure that you are still clean. We cannot afford to jeopardize our reputation.”

“I know,” the pink-haired young man responded once more, but obviously disturbed by the thought of repeating this day’s examination.

“I’m glad you know.” Jareth smiled again, an elegant smile. “Now I’m curious to learn just how much this hot little tart really does know. Come here.” A grip on the young man’s arm urged him to his feet, then Jareth ushered him into the bedroom. “I suppose, Jareth surmised, “that my part­ner brought you here before?”

“No.” Paul’s gaze scanned the huge darkened bedroom: the walnut paneling, the ivory silk bed-comforter, the large philodendron in the corner near the curtained window. “I’ve never been up here before. Mr. Roberts interviewed me in the office downstairs – that’s all.”

“Where did he administer the, uh, performance evaluation?”

Paul looked questioning. “He didn’t, he just talked with me… he said something about leav­ing the evaluation to his partner.”

“Oh really.” Jareth grinned, and then he laughed. No wonder Emil’s usual initial perfor­mance critique was missing from Paul’s file: Emil had intended to let Jareth have the first contact with this new employee. The boy was meant as Emil’s birthday gift to Jareth, a boy from Jareth’s old home town with Jareth’s unusual eyes. Emil had guessed it would excite Jareth and amuse him greatly to lay a young man so absurdly like himself. Emil had been right.

“What’s funny?” Paul queried.

Jareth smiled again. “That we have such a great deal in common.”

“Yes,” Paul agreed simply. He hesitated beside the bed, awaiting direction from Jareth.

“Paul,” Jareth spoke his name, and the young man looked back over his shoulder at the older man. “Your interview with Emil states that you had a long-time lover back in London, a relationship which lasted for ten years.”

“That’s right,” Paul admitted, still unsure of Jareth.

Jareth stepped up close behind the young man to lay his hands on Paul’s narrow shoulders, his lips near Paul’s ear. “Then treat me as you would that past lover.” His lips gently touched the young man’s ear, caressed his hair “Make love to me, Paul.”

An unintentional trembling groan dragged from the young man’s throat.

Jareth’s warm hands rubbed up and down Paul’s upper arms. “Is something wrong, Paul?” he urged softly, his low quiet voice soothing.

Paul tried to cover with a tiny nervous chuckle. “If you are going to evaluate my performance, I’m afraid I’m too nervous to score well tonight.”

From behind, Jareth grinned and tilted his head down to touch his lips to the nape of Paul’s neck. “Don’t worry about your score – you’ve already passed.” His arms slid around the young man’s slender body, pinned his arms, squeezed him tightly. “Relax,” he whispered. “Just relax and enjoy it now.” His lips and tongue tasted the slightly moist texture of Paul’s throat; he pulled the boy even tighter to himself so he could feel the firm young ass against his crotch.

A tight breath released abruptly from Paul’s lips, his shoulders slumped abruptly, his head fell back against Jareth’s shoulder. He was breathing through his mouth, eyes closed, as he tried to forci­bly will himself to relax. Jareth’s hands caressed him, up and down his body; one hand squeezed his shoulder, then worked its way down to his crotch, gripped, rubbed, massaged… slowly… firmly…

Paul moaned again.

Jareth wanted to spread the boy so badly… so very badly. His hands rubbed the inside of the boy’s thighs, then back up to his crotch, pressed hard, cupped the bulge of the young man’s cock and balls. He finger-massaged the valuable package, worked it, manipulated it, felt its bulk in his hand.

He was breathing shallow gasps through his mouth now too.

Then he worked the boy’s shirt up, baring more and more of Paul’s pale body, worked it over Paul’s head, tousling the soft silky pink hair, buried his face in the hair to breathe the faint clean fra­grance, while sliding the shirt up and off Paul’s upstretched arms.

The shirt dropped to the floor.

Slowly, half in a daze, Paul turned around to face Jareth, eyes half-lidded. Jareth’s hands moved to Paul’s breasts, Jareth’s eyes met Paul’s, as his palms massaged the soft firm flesh of Paul’s breasts. Paul returned his gaze levelly. Paul’s arms remained down at his sides; he chose not to in­ter­fere with Jareth’s intimate manipulations. Then Jareth’s thumbs and forefingers took both nipples, rolled them around gently. His quiet gaze dropped from Paul’s face to the dark-rose aureoles of the young man’s nipples, such contrast to his white breasts untouched by sun; the narrow clavicles, the ribs standing out in relief, the thin pale body.

Then Jareth’s fingers unfastened the clip at the waistband of Paul’s trousers, unzipped the fly, then slowly, caressingly, worked the slacks down off Paul’s hips and buttocks; one finger gently teased the base of Paul’s tailbone, the hint of gluteal cleavage, then slid down further into the crease, deeper and deeper, while pushing the thin material of his pants further down his thighs.

As Jareth’s teasing finger moved closer and closer to its intimate objective, Paul’s agitation reoccurred. “Please, he begged in his delicate English accent, “don’t hurt me…”

“I won’t hurt you,” Jareth murmured from a half-dream state. His hand measured the firm­ness of the younger man’s thin bony hips, worked them, kneaded and separated the cool sweat-spangled buttocks. His eyelids lay half-closed as he whispered, “Undress me now, Paul. Take my clothes off now.”

Obligingly Paul reached both hands to Jareth’s white silk blouse already open to the waist. He pushed the cool lightweight material off Jareth’s shoulders and back. For the first time, he touched Jareth now, as his hands gently gripped the width of Jareth’s bare shoulders.

Jareth smiled gently, hypnotic eyes impaling the young man. His own skin was not much darker than the boy’s, but his body was more fleshed out, more muscular than Paul’s, the body of a mature man. Jareth let the white silk flutter to the carpet. His tits were already erect. Paul’s dreamy eyes drifted over his body.

“Do you like it, Paul?” Jareth inquired softly, a slight huskiness edging his voice.

“Uh…” a guttural moan, the only sound from deep in Paul’s throat. His gaze held mesmer­ized on Jareth’s breasts, just as Jareth had enjoyed Paul’s dark aureoles.

“Go ahead,” Jareth urged the young man’s hesitant desires. “They’re yours – do whatever you want to them.”

Slowly the boy tilted his head down, closer, until his lips touched Jareth’s left nipple.

A sharp breath blew from Jareth’s nostrils, followed by a slower deeper exhalation of satisfac­tion. More firmly now Paul pressed his mouth to the other man’s tit, tongued it, sucked it. Jareth took the boy’s head with both hands, fingers clutching pink silken tresses, holding the young man’s face tight to his breast. He drank in the alcoholic sensation, then Paul suddenly jumped the feeling ten-fold by working one groping hand down the front of Jareth’s pants and finding his testicles and squeezing. The warmth from the manipulating hand drove the temperature of Jareth’s already-hot groin sky-high. Heat climbed up his body, hot blood throbbed in his ears, blinding his eyes. His brain threatened to explode.

“… god…” Jareth breath.

Slowly the boy gained confidence. He gripped Jareth’s sweat-damp scrotum more firmly now to rub, to massage, to drive its owner to the brink of frenzy. Then deliberately he slipped his hand back out, leaving Jareth moaning and quivering, then slid Jareth’s tight pants down.

Still he sucked on the tit as hard as he could. Jareth was gasping for breath. He thrust his groin against Paul’s body to regain the hot passion… _please don’t let it stop now_ … _please please oh god please_ …

“Bite it, please bite it,” Jareth begged.

Obligingly Paul pinched the nipple with his teeth, rubbed his tongue all over the little erec­tion. Still Jareth’s hands guided his head.

“Harder,” Jareth whispered, eyes closed, “bite it harder. Please bite it harder.”

Paul obeyed, nipping and nipping, until a sharp little “oh!” of pain broke from Jareth’s lips, and Jareth’s fingers clutched convulsively at Paul’s hair, tugging until it hurt the youth.

Then abruptly Jareth had had enough of that. He released Paul for a moment, just enough to pull his pants off the rest of the way and toss them aside along with his blouse and socks. And naked, he then took hold of his gift again, turned him to face the bed, then bent him over the edge, and the naked buttocks awaited Jareth just as he had visualized all afternoon long. Quickly he stripped off the rest of Paul’s clothing.

He wanted to fuck the boy right then and there. Spread that hot little ass and fuck him deep, as deep as Jareth could go. To hell with any more foreplay… but then it would be over too soon, way too soon. He wanted this to last all night. He wanted to take the boy more than once. As many times as he could possibly get it up, he wanted to shove it up again and again, and shoot off his load deep inside the hot tight hole.

A dozen times if he could. A hundred.

Now he studied the young man’s body for the second time this day. So thin, so vulnerable, so pale. Any other time, Jareth would have considered such an effeminate body uninteresting, but something about his one aroused him surprisingly strongly. He never would have believed it before.

He reached both hands to Paul’s slender waist; Paul’s face lay turned to the side so he could watch Jareth, his thin arms stretched across the bed over his head. Beneath his grip Jareth could feel tension build in the young man’s body.

Then Jareth climbed on top of him, hands spread on either side of Paul’s head, weight propped up on his vertical arms, legs stretched out behind, between Paul’s spread legs. Jareth scanned the pale body limp with relief after the probing, then lowered himself on top. Slowly he ex­haled a long deep sigh. This was where he had wanted to be, skin to skin… _thank you, Emil, oh thank you, partner, I’ll make it up to you, I’ll do anything you ask_ … _anything at all_ …

He could feel uncontrollable trembling against him. He worked his hands beneath both of their bodies to hug Paul around the chest and rub his body soothingly. “Come on, relax,” he urged quietly into Paul’s hair, felt the warmth of his breath radiate back into his own face. “Come on.” He was smiled gently, coaxingly.

Again he pressed his face into the silken hair. He kissed it. Kissed it again and again, enjoy­ing the texture with his lips, searching for unkissed spots to taste, searching the nape of Paul’s neck for tender areas. His own long shaggy blond tressed drifted against both their faces. His body moved seductively, suggestively, against Paul’s. Again Paul was trying to force himself to relax: Jareth could feel his body quiver sharply, then go limp for a minute, then jump again with another sharp electric quiver.

“Come here,” Jareth urged and rolled off onto his back beside Paul. “Take me. Use me. Do what you want with me. I’m yours tonight, Paul.”

. . . . .

 _to be continued_ …

 


	3. Chapter 3

Paul just lay there for a few minutes, then rolled over onto his side toward Jareth. A hesitant touch stroked the older Englishman’s breasts.

Jareth smiled at him, not unkindly. “You’ve never slutted yourself before, have you, Paul? Besides your ex-lover, how many men have you bedded?”

“I don’t remember… two, I guess… no, three… it was before I met Tommy… that was ten years ago.”

“Two? three?” Jareth smile gently mocked. “How do you plan to survive here where you may lay eight, ten, twelve clients a day?”

Narrow shoulder shrugged. “I don’t know…” he mumbled under his breath.

“Two or three…” The admission amused Jareth. Lying on his back, he looked up at Paul’s young face over him. For the first time he found himself enjoying a young man’s effeminate face – he never had before – delicate features, high cheekbones, gaunt blushed cheeks, meticulously shaped eyebrows, dark-shadowed bi-colored eyes, long mascaraed lashes, pink glossed lips. A chuckle tightened Jareth subtly painted lips. “Come here,” he urged again, half a request, half a command. Obligingly Paul lowered his weight on top of the other man.

“That’s good,” Jareth sighed satisfaction. With both hands he combed desirous fingers through the boy’s hair at the temples, then took the sides of Paul’s head. “Now come here,” he whis­pered intensely, and the young man’s head inclined toward his, and for the first time their lips met.

They stayed like that for a long time, tongues tasting, exploring; pleasure absorbed Jareth, he just wanted to stay like this and not even have to think until morning. He didn’t even want supper. His hand roamed freely over the young man, the gaunt bony physique, thin shoulders, prominent sca­pulae, protruding ribs.

Sweat slicked both their naked bodies as they squirmed against each other. Desirously Jareth gripped Paul’s buttocks, grinding his groin against Paul’s A drop of sweat dripped off Paul’s wet face onto Jareth.

Still their lips clung. Jareth’s tongue probed as deep as it could. He just wanted to violate the young man deep, so deep, any opening he could penetrate. Paul’s breath dragged warm and heavy in Jareth’s throat. Jareth’s tongue licked Paul’s lips, passed over hard firm teeth to explore the slick wetness of Paul’s mouth and tongue.

Beneath the sweat smell, the sweet scent of Paul’s cologne teased Jareth’s nostrils. He took a deep breath of the fragrance.

He wanted the boy for his own.

Damn, he wanted this boy in his bed every night. He hadn't even fucked him once yet, but he already knew that he wanted this young fellow-countryman with the like-eyes to warm his bed and pleasure him like this every night. Besides, the boy did need a tutor anyway to teach him technique – _only two or three!_ – and Jareth had twenty years of experience to instill into this new pupil. If Paul could be this erotic while untrained, how much greater would his performance be once polished and perfected.

But first he had to fuck the boy. Right now, right now.

He gripped firm buttocks, spread them, then shoved his left middle finger up there deep in­side.

“Oh!” Paul whimpered, “that hurts. Please! Let me suck you…I’m very good at that.”

Jareth’s finger continued to rub him inside, so hot, so tight, so moist, god that sent his heart­beat racing. He wanted his prod in that same hot hole. All he’d been thinking about all afternoon was ass-fucking this pink-haired young man. Now he had to do it.

“I’m going to do it now, Paul,” Jareth murmured in a quiet tone that was more announcement than request. “I have to.”

“… ohhh…” the young Englishman moaned in nervous anticipation, body taut, hands grip­ping wrinkled fistfuls of satin bed-cover.

This was what he had waited so long for. Naked white ass, and all his tonight. Jareth’s prick throbbed madly, he wanted to shove it in right now. He kissed the white buttocks, felt the smooth cool sweat-damp skin against his lips, kissed Paul’s tailbone, tentatively tongued the beginning of cleavage; then in one passionate desire, thrust his tongue into the young man’s channel.

“Omigod!” Paul gasped, and Jareth didn’t know if it was in pain or arousal. His tongue prod­ded while Paul moaned in keen agitation, then he withdrew to kiss the soft flesh again. He slid a hand from Paul’s hips to the young man’s genitals, felt the young prick abruptly swollen hard and erect.

“Good,” Jareth whispered, mostly to himself. And then, his hot swollen prick could wait not a second longer.

He climbed over the boy, spread him with one hand, used the other to guide his blood-hot organ against the anus. The hole was tight; Paul was trying desperately to relax as much as he could but not succeeding very well. Jareth propped himself over the body beneath and thrust smoothly, rhythmically against the tight muscle ring. He didn’t want to tear anything, but he had to gain en­trance.

… _damn, he was in!_... he practically lost his load right then and there… hot and tight and wet … prick sliding firmly into a hot slick channel… Somewhere in the corner of his mind he hear Paul whimper in pain, but it hardly registered, right now his entire being focussed intently on the brain-searing sensation of hot slick sheath. Sweat drenched his body, soaked long blond tresses, stung his eyes, trickled and dripped off his own body onto Paul’s. Frantically he thrust now… _please please please, release, please please please_ … the tension in his cock and balls grew unbearable, almost a screaming pain in his loins… _please let loose now please!_ His body tortured him on the edge of orgasm… he’d waited for this so long… _please don’t make me wait another thirty seconds_ …

Brain exploded in searing white light. Hot wetness shot into the young man’s opening, a good load of it. Ramming frantically. A tiny moan whined in Jareth’s throat of exquisite pleasure and pain. Ramming and ramming. Unable to catch his breath. Sweat running in rivulets… ramming, ramming… _oh god please don’t stop yet please please please_ … ramming so hard, so hard, clutching the fading tendrils of mind-blasting orgasm… _don’t stop so soon please don’t oh god please oh god oh god oh god oh god_ …

The sensation wafted, drifted away. He thrust again, but the ecstasy was slowly dissipating. Another thrust, half-hearted. Nothing.

Jareth collapsed limply on top of his young lover. The blinding ecstasy had lasted at the most a minute, no more. Hours of gut-tearing expectation for a mere moment of fireworks.

Beneath him, Paul still thrust against the mattress in his final few seconds of orgasm, then he too relaxed face-down on the bed, dragging deep uneven breaths, muscles trembling with total ex­haustion, sweat pouring.

Jareth continued to lie on top of Paul, his organ still penetrating the wet warmth of the youn­ger man’s opening. After waiting so long, he didn’t want to break contact so soon. His face pressed against Paul’s soaking-wet hair, his chest heaving with desperate breaths. He hadn't been this drained in a very long time. Now all he wanted to do was sleep off this lethargy, this lassitude, for a couple of hours, then start all over again. They had a great deal more ground to cover before this orgy was through.

He could teach the boy. Paul had a lot to learn, although most of the problem was simply his shyness. If they could spend some time together and break through that barrier, and if Paul was a good student, he could really turn into a hot little item very quickly. Usually too the other employees assisted in the training of a new man, but Jareth wouldn’t allow them to this time. He wanted to train Paul alone. Paul would be his own private protégé.

He woke up still lying on Paul, still penetrating, still face pressed against Paul’s wet hair. He wondered how long he’d been asleep. Sticky sweat slicked their bodies. Paul’s shallow even respira­tion indicated that he was still asleep.

Once more Jareth kissed Paul’s hair, lips caressing silk – wet silk – then found his cheek, the corner of his lips. He enjoyed the firm texture of Paul’s lips, stroked a hand along the young man’s slick hairless body. Anticipation for the hours of training they would share tingled his brain. He hadn't felt this good in a long time.

For now he’d go into the bathroom and clean up from Act One. It must be getting near din­nertime – now he was hungry – he’d have supper brought up for the both of them after Paul awoke. And then, after a respite, they’d begin Act Two.

Gently, so as not to disturb Paul, Jareth uncoupled, then slid off, pushed himself off the bed, and went into the bathroom. He used the toilet, then shot a quick deprecating glance in the full-length mirror at his sweat-smelly body with its soft flaccid prick, and he grinned, before stepping into a hot stinging shower.

He soaped up, shampooed his long shag-cut blond hair, felt the hot water pulse against his body, flushing his skin red, and swirl around his ankles. Someday very soon Paul would share this blue-tiled shower stall with him, and Jareth would rub Paul’s soap-slick body, and they would kiss and fondle under the nearly scalding blast, and fingers would explore openings, and Jareth’s wet soapy cock would slide easily into Paul’s tight hole…

Jareth took hold of his organ, limp now, but soon to grow rigid again for another chance at Paul’s virginal opening – how very much like a virgin Paul seemed, even though he had already lost his virginity to one of four men! Jareth grinned again, and his limp flesh squirmed electrically at the titillating suggestion. Absently he thumbed the glans, then rinsed the soap from his body, and finally stepped out of the shower cubicle.

Paul was in the bathroom now too, sponge-bathing before the full-length mirror, carefully ex­amining his face, touched his organ almost cautiously, studying himself.

He looked up at Jareth’s sopping reflection close behind his shoulder.

Jareth smiled in the mirror. “You know, you’re very good,” he murmured.

“I hardly did anything,” Paul replied noncommittally.

Jareth took a large plush blue towel from the rack, rubbed his face and dripping hair, then began drying off. “How do you feel?” he inquired. “Are you bleeding?”

“No, but my arse hurts like hell.” Paul turned the shower back on for himself.

Jareth covered his head with the towel, briskly rubbed his wet hair. “Well, Doctor Martin downstairs can give me some Motrin for that – it always helps me immediately. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m not sure anything can make me feel better,” Paul retorted over the hiss of the shower. “I guess I was wrong to think I could make a living at this. You were right – I have no experience doing ten or twelve casual fucks a day… To tell you the truth, I don’t even know why your partner hired me.”

“No!” Sudden concern tightened Jareth’s face. “No, Paul, you belong here. You said your­self you were newly arrived in the Colonies – well, what could be more opportune than running into a fellow-countryman to introduce you to this new culture?” He smiled a tentative smile. “… besides, it’s been years since I left London. I’m eager to be brought up to date on affairs back at home, and I’m greatly enjoying visiting with a fellow Brixtoner.” He handed the young man a towel as Paul stepped out onto the carpeted floor. “I’ll call for supper now,” the older man offered, hoping to quickly thwart this threat to his future plans. “What would you like to eat?”

Paul followed Jareth back into the bedroom.   “It doesn’t matter. I guess I’d better leave after supper. I don’t want to cost you any more salary that I already have if I don’t intend to remain in your employ.”

“I’d rather you didn’t leave,” Jareth disagreed. “At least not tonight. Stay the night, make up your mind tomorrow. I’m sure we can work something out.”

“I don’t know…”

“Please.” Taking two bathrobes out of the closet, he handed the blue velour to Paul and kept the wine satin for himself. “You have no other plans for tonight anyway, do you?”

“No.”

“Then will you at least stay until morning?”

Paul’s gaze dropped shyly to the floor. “All right.”

“Good. Now, what would you like for dinner? Steak? Shrimp?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Which?” Jareth grinned. “Or both?”

“That’s fine,” Paul repeated, a little smile tugging at his lips in response.

Jareth lay down on the bed again, then picked up the telephone receiver and buzzed the kit­chen downstairs. Then before anyone answered, he looked up at Paul for a quick word. “Would you please get your file from the coffee table, Paul, and bring it here, please?... Ah, yes, hello, I’d like two dinners brought up to the penthouse… steak and shrimp, and surprise us with the rest… yes… we’re ready now, have it sent up as soon as it’s done… yes, thank you, goodbye.”

After hanging up, he lay back on the pillow to relax and watch Paul through the open bed­room door. Somehow he would discover – or if necessary, create – a reason for Paul to stay. A little thought teased the corner of his mind – it had for some time, he admitted – that he wasn’t sure he wanted to share Paul as a hooker, even with the customers. He wanted that innocently hot little piece of meat all to himself.

Paul reëntered the bedroom and handed the file over. Jareth opened it, flipped through it – he was looking for something to key in on. Then he found it.

“Paul,” he inquired of the young man combing damp hair in from of the bureau mirror, “this says that you worked as an accountant in the five years following your graduation from the univer­sity.”

“Yes, I worked for St. Joseph’s General Hospital in London. I started out as a bookkeeper- clerk, then by the time I left last month, I was the assistant to the head accountant.”

“You say you need money – why haven’t you simply gotten a job here in America as an ac­countant?”

Paul was checking his face, his make-up in the mirror. “Because I need a lot of money, and I need it right away. I can’t get enough quickly enough from an accounting position.”

Jareth beckoned to the reflection for Paul to come closer to the bed. “What do you need that kind of money for, Paul?”

Paul’s gaze dropped uneasily. “It’s personal, I’d rather not say.”

Jareth’s gaze remained level. “How much junk do you use?”

“What?” Paul questioned uncomprehendingly, but his eyes flashed back up quickly, too quickly.

“Drugs, Paul. How much do you use?”

Abrupt anxiety creased the young man’s brow. “None,” he retorted crisply. “I don’t use any­thing like that. Didn’t any of your tests reveal that, surely?” And as though to offer evidence, he thrust his bare arms toward Jareth for the older man’s inspection. Casually with half-interest, Jareth pushed back the loose sleeves of the dressing gown off Paul’s arms, glanced down at the inner skin of his elbows and forearms.

No needle marks scarred the young man’s white skin, although Jareth hadn’t expected to see any anyway.

“Pills?” he suggested.

No, of course not.” Impulsively Paul turned his back on Jareth to hide his troubled face, and moved away from the bed. “I don’t do drugs,” he reiterated firmly.

“Then why else would you need a large amount of money in a small amount of time? Is it for something illegal?”

Anxiously Paul hugged himself, rubbed his upper arms in a nervous gesture. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Come here, Paul.”

Paul’s head jerked a quick negative. “I.. don’t think I want to.”

“Paul, come here.” Jareth reached a hand out. “Come here.”

The younger man glanced over his shoulder, then obligingly returned to Jareth’s side. Jareth smiled, while his eyes enjoyed Paul’s body again.

Then he undid the tie of his own dressing gown and laid the material open, then loosened Paul’s sash to expose the young body.

“Come here, Paul,” he repeated, this time a husky whisper.

Without a word, Paul held open the blue velour while he climbed onto the bed and lay down atop Jareth one more time. Jareth’s lips parted; he reached both hands up to draw Paul’s face down to his own. Paul’s open mouth covered Jareth’s.

Jareth’s tongue penetrated; he could feel Paul suck on the wet flesh, hesitantly at first, then harder. His genitals pressed up against Paul’s hips undulating slightly.

Warmth settled in his solar plexus, then slowly trickled out along all of his nerves. He wanted it again.

Both hands slid around Paul’s skinny body beneath the velvet velour, slid up to his shoulder blades, ran over the muscles of his back, felt his ribcage move in respiration. Fingertips feather-touched up and down his spine while tiny moans of arousal shuddered in Paul’s throat. Desperately, hungrily, Jareth explored his face with wet lips, his cheeks, his throat. Paul’s hair hung damp over both their faces as they kissed each other, tasted each other.

Then drawing one hand between them, Jareth found one of Paul’s tits again to finger and manipulate. Paul propped himself up a few inches, arms braced on either side of Jareth’s head, to give Jareth more room to work and also to be able to watch Jareth’s intimacies. Jareth took both tits, rubbed them, tugged them, worked them both erect.

“Do you like me to touch you like this, Paul?” Jareth murmured, massaging the young man’s pectorals.

“Yes,” Paul answered, intent on Jareth’s presumptive eroticisms.

Did you like what I did to you before?”

Paul shrugged narrow shoulders. “It hurt.”

“… But you came.”

“Yes…”

“Was it good?”

“I suppose.”

Jareth’s fondling moved down to the young man’s crotch. Paul’s pubic hair was still damp from the shower. Paul drew his legs up to straddle Jareth on his hands and knees. His genitals dan­gled between his legs, urgently craving Jareth’s coddling grip. Gently Jareth cupped and coddled the bulk. Breath caught in Paul’s throat.

A tiny grin cocked the corner of the older man’s lips, as he commented, “You seem so gun-shy around your hole, Paul. Don’t tell me that in ten years of a relationship you and your friend never ass-fucked each other.”

Paul’s face tightened ins light exasperation. “Of course we did, lots of times… most of the time…” He pursed his lips in an unconscious almost-feminine expression of irritation. “… But he never hurt me, never ripped me We were considerate of each other. And he never forced a lay on me if I didn’t want it some particular night. We loved each other.”

Jareth’s left hand reached up to touch damp copper-pink hair. “Would you consider staying on here, Paul, under slightly different conditions?”

“Perhaps. What conditions?”

Jareth delayed a moment to draw the young made-up face to his own and taste the moist pink lips again. Then he announced, “The Club has a business office, of course, and we need bodies to run it as much as we need bodies to staff the bedrooms. So, some of the employees fill those positions eight hours a day for salary, then if they want, they work in as many clients as they choose after their shifts. Even for those who don’t wish to entertain the patrons, the pay is comparable to that of the employees who work the bedrooms all day, and each employee’s responsibility to the Club for room and board and profit is pro-rated equable.”

Paul moved responsively to Jareth’s hands squeezing and kneading his buttocks. “What type of positions?”

“My controller quit abruptly last week,” Jareth stated, and a dry smile of understanding tight­ened Paul’s lips. Jareth’s touch slid up and down Paul’s back and buttocks and thighs. “… leaving me with not only month-end close-out, but quarter-end as well, not to mention quarterly tax reports to complete. I’ve done most of it, but I need help. I have other projects that are also demanding my time. I need a new controller. Would you be interested?”

“You say the pay is the same?”

“Close. Comparable.”

“Would I still lay the clientele?”

“Some. But not for awhile – I want to train you first for several… weeks.” Jareth’s fingers drifted over the delicate features, stroked down the youth’s cleavage, pinched a dark nipple. He really didn’t want the young man to lay anyone else… ever.”

“I don’t want those medics to examine me ever again,” Paul insisted quietly but adamantly. “I can’t stand the thought of their touching me like they did.”

Jareth kissed him, urged with his hands for Paul to lie flat on top of him again. Paul’s weight, light as it was, pressing breast to breast, organ to organ, aroused Jareth immensely. Another kiss. Jareth read the pain in the young man’s eyes, but he had to admit, “I’m afraid the monthly testing is mandatory – even I’m not exempt from it. But if it will make the difference for you, I can administer your examinations privately, instead of the medics. I promise I’ll be gentler than they were. Would you stay then?”

Hesitantly Paul nodded. “Yes, I’ll stay… though I should tell you I know absolutely nothing about American business law and tax reporting. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

Jareth smiled, confidence returning. He had what he wanted. “That’s all right, you’ll learn,” he assured, and the double-entendre was more than obvious. His tongue moistened Paul’s lips.

Now his hands slipped outside Paul’s dressing gown to feel the velour against the young man’s body as they kissed. He stroked the velvet material over firm shoulders, torso, buttocks, while his lips searched other lips, cheeks, throat, earlobes. Erotically his tongue massaged a wet trail from the base of Paul’s jaw by his right ear, down across his throat to the hollow of his sternum. Paul moaned with dreamy pleasure, and all the while Jareth caressed velour.

Then, with Paul still lying face-down on top of him, he stroked Paul’s thighs, then pushed up the velour halfway up Paul’s back, baring his ass to the world. Jareth’s fingers gripped gluteal mus­cle, then one finger started probing cleavage again.

Paul groaned. “That hurts. I’m sore.”

Obligingly Jareth withdrew his finger, then turned his interest to the young man’s scrotal sac an inch away. He manipulated it, jerked his own crotch urgently, aggressively, against Paul’s, felt their cocks rub together. Jareth could sense his own prick still limp and unresponsive, not yet quite recovered from the first hard-ass fuck. But it would be soon, he could feel that, with maybe another ten or fifteen minutes’ worth of foreplay. A contented smiled teased his lips.

At the sound of the doorbell, Paul stiffened nervously and shot a sharp glance through the open bedroom door toward the front room.

“Come in,” Jareth called, not bothering to arise from his compromising position on the bed with Paul.

. . . . .

 _to be continued_ …


	4. Chapter 4

In alarm, Paul tried to push himself off of Jareth, but Jareth just held him, continuing to stroke him and attempting to kiss him, but Paul was disturbingly distracted by the young man in a waiter’s uniform entering the apartment with the dinner cart.

“Let me go!” Paul begged nervously, but Jareth wouldn’t.

“It’s all right,” Jareth insisted, “just lie down. He doesn’t give a damn what we’re doing.”

Grudgingly, hesitantly, Paul lay back down, but he held himself stiffly, breathing heavily. His head lay next to Jareth’s, face down, deliberately hidden on the side away from the door. He did in­sist on pulling the hem of the dressing gown down over his rear and Jareth’s fondling hand. Jareth didn’t bother to remove his hand from Paul’s privates even with the visitor in the waiter’s uniform appeared in the bedroom doorway.

The waiter paid no notice to the not-unusual scene in Jareth’s bedroom. “I’ve brought your dinner, sir,” he announced.

“Thank you,” Jareth smiled calmly from beneath Paul’s tense trembling body.

“Would you like your drinks in here right now, sir?”

Absently Jareth free hand stroked Paul’s head and shoulder. ‘Uh, no,” Jareth decided, “just leave the bottle on the table. Thank you, Terrence.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Then Terrence was gone and Jareth continued fondling and kissing Paul as if they had never been interrupted.

“Shit!” Paul hissed under his breath.

“Mm?” Jareth queried, mildly amused by Paul’s reaction of shy modesty.

Paul shrugged. ‘Nothing,” he grunted laconically, and did not bother to elaborate. Restlessly he pulled away from Jareth’s stroking hands, and this time Jareth released him. He climbed off the bed, went back to the bathroom to use the toilet. He didn’t bother to close the bathroom door.

“Remember,” Jareth called after him, “you live in a whorehouse now. You’ll often walk in on others, and you’ll be walked in on. Everyone here just accepts that as a fact of life.” From his posi­tion still lying on the bed, he could see Paul’s outline from the rear. “You’ll have to get used to it,” he reminded frankly, “but don’t worry – you _will_ get used to it.”

Paul reëntered the bedroom, robe still hanging open. “I really don’t have a choice, do I?”

“No.”

“Well.” Standing at the foot of the bed, Paul looked down at Jareth’s relaxed figure. “Do you want to eat now while the food is hot, or shall we continue my performance evaluation?”

Jareth grinned. “We’ll eat… and then I want to find out if what you said was really true – that you’re very good at going down.”

“Tommy liked my technique,” Paul shrugged, re-tying the sash of his dressing gown.

“So, tell me more about yourself,” Jareth requested as the two of them strolled into the dinette. “Tell me how the old neighborhood is doing these days. I’ve not been there in eight years.”

Paul poured the wine at the table. Terrence the waiter had set their places elegantly on a bro­cade tablecloth. Steak and shrimp, salad and rice pilaf and Yorkshire pudding waited to be served. A lit taper flickered shadows over the room.

“The old neighborhood is declining,” the young man responded, taking his seat across the small intimate table-for-two. “The slums are encroaching on what little good areas there were, and the crime rate is soaring. The Times editorializes that the core of the problem is the high unemploy­ment rates of the East African sections, but who really knows? People die every day in gang fights and in confrontations with the police.”

“Unfortunately,” Jareth agreed, “Brixton doesn’t have the corner on the high unemployment rates.” He reached across the table to serve Paul’s dinner. “Have you lived all your life in London, or have you traveled elsewhere at all?”

“I was born there. I’ve been living with my brother in a flat right off Chatham Road and Berkeley Avenue,” – Jareth smiled at the familiarity of the address – “and as I said, I’ve worked in London proper at St. Joseph’s since 1979. I’m afraid I’m not very well-traveled. This is my first trip abroad.”

Jareth caught him with a direct gaze. “Does your brother know that you’re gay?”

Paul’s eyes flashed up to Jareth’s stare, then danced away. “… Yes, he knows,” he admitted carefully.

“It doesn’t bother him?”

“No.” Agitation affected the young man’s breathing.

“How does the rest of your family accept it?”

“They don’t know about it.” Paul’s obvious disturbance intrigued Jareth. Obviously the young man was choosing to hide something, yet obviously he wasn’t trying to be subtle about it. Paul said no more, but turned his attention to the food on his plate.

A tangle of emotions flittered in Jareth’s belly. As proprietor, he wasn’t supposed to become emotionally involved with any of the employees – it was bad for business, and one of the primary rules of proper management which he’d lived by for years. Even before joining Emil, he had deliber­ately never gotten close to other hookers who might work with him for awhile; and particularly after buying into the Club, even though the young men hired by the Club were the best-looking and skilled that Emil could find, and certainly the temptation could be there if Jareth wanted to find it. Although, truthfully, the opportunities never tantalized him before. He simply turned off any nagging sugges­tion of fraternization with any of the young men before it reached his conscious mind – he was very good at that. He would still sleep with them whenever he felt like it, just as he would sleep with Emil maybe once a week, and enjoy it greatly, but one would never consider dignifying the act of scratch­ing an itch by calling it a ‘relationship’. After all, they ran a house of prostitution, not a computer marriage service.

The dinner pleased his tongue. The restaurant downstairs lived up to the standards of excel­lence that the bedrooms on the third floor offered the clientele: absolute satisfaction for the high price which the guest paid. Always the patrons received unparalleled quality at Emil’s, and they paid for it. And they returned, and they brought more business with them.

And Jareth had no desire to upset the smooth mechanisms of this business endeavor by be­coming emotionally involved with any of the labor-force.

Except for one pink-haired odd-eyed secretive skinny young apprentice.

Paul was looking down at his half-finished dinner, and not at Jareth, as he attempted to half-heartedly to cover his nervousness. “How long have you been in America?” he inquired of the older man.

“Five years, last July,” Jareth responded without hesitation. “I met my partner eight years ago when I was living in France for a while and he was vacationing there from America. He offered me a partnership if I ever decided to emigrate to the Colonies. I arrived three years later and bought into Emil’s holdings.” Again his smile at Paul reflected desire and hot sensuality. “Now I’m very glad I did.”

Paul glanced up at him, but didn’t answer.

Beneath the table, Jareth’s knee touched Paul’s. Paul pressed back, not strongly but respon­sively. Satisfaction warmed in Jareth’s solar plexus. “Paul,” he commented, “I’m a little surprised we never met back in Brixton. I thought I knew most of the population back home – it hardly covers twenty-five square kilometers – at least I thought I knew everyone in the gay population. You must not have frequented the pub in South London, Daltrey’s, or I surely would have seen you.”

Paul shook his head even before Jareth mentioned the name of the only gay pub near their neighborhood. “No,” the young man replied quickly. “I never openly lived a gay life back home. I never let anyone know.”

“How could they not know?” Jareth countered in amusement. “Your make-up and your hair color advertise it quite strongly.”

Paul just shrugged. “I know. My family has always considered me less of a man than my brother, but I always hid the truth of the relationship between Tommy and me.”

“I don’t see how you could have for ten years.”

“I did. They never knew. My mother still asks me when am I going to settle down with a nice girl… I’m afraid I’ve never known how to answer that.”

Jareth refilled his plate. “Surely you’ve been propositioned by men who guessed you were of a… homosexual persuasion?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, I would assume you’ve had many requests for you, uh, services. You’re a very attractive man.”

“Yes, I have.” Paul seemed embarrassed by Jareth’s candor.

Bi-colored eyes smiled beneath blond shag. “And have you accepted a lot of the proposals?”

Paul’s brow creased in mild agitation and self-consciousness. “I told you, I’ve had only three … relations… besides Tommy.”

“And did you like them?”

“Not really, I don’t know… I don’t really want to talk about them…”

But Jareth would not be dissuaded. “Tell me what they were like… How were they different from your relation with Tommy?”

Jareth’s probing obviously upset Paul; pain tightened the young man’s face, but he responded succinctly, “Two of them were… all right… the other was a rich bloke in a limousine who just came up to me on the street, and I said yes, and he took me to an estate just outside of Southampton, and he had… sex with me, then he drove me back to Brixton, but instead of just letting me off where he had picked me up, he had his chauffeur stop in a small alley in the east side of town and he… made me get out of the auto… and he… got out too… and then he… uh… he…”

“Raped you?”

It wasn’t hard to guess.

Paul nodded silently.

“Did you report it to the police?”

“Of course not, how could I?”

“Did you ever tell Tommy?”

That seemed to disturb Paul even more. “No, I couldn’t… I never told Tommy about the others… I really don’t want to talk about it anymore…”

Jareth poured more wine for both of them, as he attempted to explain, “I’m only asking to ascertain your suitability to work here. Unfortunately, this isn’t the type of employment for which one can supply a résumé to potential employers.”

Hesitantly, grudgingly, Paul added a few more words. “The difference is that Tommy and I love each other… but he is a very jealous man, and if he ever knew that I had had casual… rela­tions… with other men, he would become enraged…”

“Would he beat you?”

“I don’t know… I don’t think so…”

“What does he think of your coming to America and working in a brothel?”

“He doesn’t know… please, I don’t want him to ever know… I ran away… he doesn’t know where I am…”

Jareth’s gaze dropped to his plate. “I’m still very curious why a man with your… conserva­tive background would choose to work in a whorehouse. Most of our applicants and employees have worked the streets awhile before they come to us looking for better working conditions and greater pay. But you’re not a hooker. You are a naïve conservative schoolboy.”

Paul refused to answer directly. Instead he counter-queried, “I’m still curious why your part­ner hired a naïve conservative schoolboy in the first place.”

Then abruptly, as though to interrupt the probing conversation, the young man with pink hair got up from the table and wandered out of the dinette.

Jareth watched after him. A nagging voice deep inside his head warned him not to get in­volved with this one – too many secrets, too many ( _lies?_ ) inconsistencies, too many uneasy hesita­tions – if the young man was not hiding a criminal record or a present illegal conspiracy, then at least he was dreadfully naïve and emotionally insecure, and not at all a suitable lover.

But then, since when did obsession ever listen to the voice of reason?

Lazily Jareth pushed his chair away from the table a few inches. Dinner had been more than filling. He slumped back in the chair, knees lolling apart loosely, one hunger satiated, another beg­ging for satisfaction. Casually he untied the dressing gown sash, allowing the front edges of the robe to fall open, exposing his naked body.

Paul; was in the sitting room now, glancing over the titles on the bookshelves with half-interest. He had finished only half his meal before he’d left the table in search of some other distrac­tion.

Jareth tilted his head back against the top edge of the chair. “Paul,” he called, “I’m ready now.”

Putting up whatever book he was perusing just then, Paul returned to the dinette. He moved close behind Jareth’s chair; looked down at Jareth’s shaggy blond hair and male nakedness. “Do you want to do it in here, or do you want to go back to the bedroom?” he inquired of the older man.

Jareth reached up to draw Paul’s face down to his, upside-down, to lightly tongue between Paul’s lips. “We’ll start here…” he suggested, playing the tip of his tongue across a smooth cheek, “… and end up wherever we end up.” Then urging Paul to step around the chair, he undid Paul’s sash, and pulled Paul down to his knees before him. Humor danced in Jareth’s eyes. “So, you say you’re very good at sucking… Let’s find out just how good that is.” Jareth stroked the pink hair again – how he enjoyed the feel of soft silken strands. “Show me what ten years have taught you, Paul Michael Windsor…”

Resting his hands on Jareth’s bare knees, Paul knelt between Jareth’s legs, leaned forward to delicately kiss Jareth’s belly. Pink silk caressed Jareth’s quivering skin. Electric pinpricks danced up his body; he groaned helplessly, fingers clutched the shiny pink hair to guide Paul’s head. Already he could feel warmth increasing deep in his groin. Paul’s eyes were closed, Jareth enjoyed the dark-sha­dowed lids, the long lashes lying on soft cheeks; Paul’s lips traced light paths on Jareth’s abdomen, thighs, then up to his nipples, everywhere but where Jareth wanted it most. The delicate teasing taunted Jareth tormentingly.

Paul’s hands began to stroke Jareth’s thighs, up and down on top, then slid underneath to squeeze the flesh and try to work up to the grasp the older man’s buttocks. Jareth raised his hips an inch to give Paul’s fingers more room. Now it was Paul’s turn to knead and squeeze and manipulate while he kissed Jareth’s thighs and belly.

Jareth gazed down at Paul’s head. He felt Paul’s warm moist breath on his belly, feathering his genitals, and he thought he might very well lose his mind with pleasure.

With both hands he took the sides of Paul’s head, tried to force it between his legs, despera­tely needing to slide his prick into Paul’s warm wet mouth. But Paul wouldn’t let him – Paul kissed and caressed and licked, all the while deliberately ignoring the most sensitive parts of Jareth’s body.

“Please…” Jareth pleaded desperately, “… oh, please…”

But Paul just smiled to himself, and erotically tongued a wet trail down along the inside of Jareth’s right thigh, then back up again gently, delicately, all the while Jareth was moaning and beg­ging for the torture to stop. Then Paul switched to the other thigh, crossing over Jareth’s groin, not touching yet, although his cheek did brush against the Englishman’s hardening prick, then Paul worked his tongue firmly against the flesh of Jareth’s thigh.

“… ohh god…” Jareth breathed, sliding out of the dinette chair onto the thick shag carpet on his back. Paul raised up on his knees, straddling Jareth’s left leg, looking down at Jareth’s body, up to his face, back down slowly over his breasts, belly, sex organs. Jareth smiled at him, enjoying ex­hibiting himself to this new lover. Suggestively he drew up a knee between Paul’s legs; Paul moved his hips pleasurably, crotch pressed down against Jareth’s knee.

“Take off your robe,” Jareth whispered from the floor, admiring Paul’s young thin body. Without lessening the pressure against Jareth’s knee, Paul slipped the gown off, threw it aside. Jareth’s smile increased. He worked his knee against the young man’s genitals.

Paul sighed, then leaned forward to push Jareth’s robe off too, his fingers stroked Jareth’s hair, dug into the tangled shag, combed through long blond strands. Jareth turned his face to the side to kiss Paul’s fingers, then squirmed to free himself of his own gown. Helpfully Paul pulled it off his shoulders, down his arms, then tossed it aside with the other robe.

“Now,” Jareth whispered. “I want it now, Paul.”

Now it was Paul’s turn to stretch out on his belly between Jareth’s legs. Still he didn’t intend to satisfy Jareth any too soon. His fingers played lightly over the older man’s abdomen, thighs, hips. Jareth drew his knees up on either side of Paul’s head, allowing the young man full access. Luxuri­ously he squirmed on the thick-piled carpet, crushing the soft plush against his skin, and realizing that it had been a very long time since he’d last made love lying on the floor. Paul’s warm breath on Jareth’s sensitive flesh was driving Jareth crazy. Paul’s head hung just an inch from Jareth’s organs, but he didn’t touch and he didn’t kiss, even though Jareth contracted his muscles to raise his hips off the floor and offer what he had to the young lover.

Despite the emotional agony, a grin tightened Jareth’s thin lips. “You know how to torture,” he admitted wryly.

Paul only shrugged. He watched Jareth’s tender flesh.

Then finally he bent down to lightly touch his lips to the base of Jareth’s prick.

Jareth groaned.

A kiss… another kiss... light breath warm, moist… lips touching the shaft here, there… tongue flicking over the glans, feather-light teasing…

Jareth lay there on his back, knees bent, quivering, tense, hips trembling, jerking rhythmically, tiny fast jerks, he desperately wanted to guide Paul’s head to take him right now, but Paul would not be guided, so instead Jareth clutched the rug, fingers tight, muscles taut, trying to allow Paul’s deli­berately procrastination intended to increase the ecstasy, yet so close to total out-of-control right now that he could hardly coöperate with the young man’s hesitation any longer.

Paul’s weight shifted forward so that his mouth could cover Jareth’s right nipple, suck it, tongue it wetly. Then he bit it, Jareth shuddered, gripped the hair at Paul’s temples with both hands, convulsively thrust his hips against Paul’s body, his prick swelling now, really hard and hot.

“Please,” he begged breathlessly, “no more playing… please let me get off now… please… don’t torture me any longer, Paul… please…”

But Paul just moved to the other breast and bit that nipple too, while Jareth begged for mercy; and then Paul went down on him with mercy at all. His lips touched the smooth purple glans, tongue probed the slit, worked the tender slick opening, wet and warm of mucus and semen. Jareth couldn’t stand it anymore – he forced his organ into Paul’s mouth. Paul accepted as much as he could. His tongue worked on the shaft, worked on the glans, his teeth nipped the foreskin, then bit the tender fre­nulum, firm with teeth caused Jareth pain, abusive erotic pain. Jareth wanted to pull away, but at the same time he craved it masochistically. Right now he wanted to blow off more than anything else in the world. He craved relief from the pressure deep inside his loins. He had to come, he wanted to shoot off into the young man’s mouth right now.

Paul’s grip massaged Jareth’s buttocks forcefully, while he deliberately released the older man’s prick to mouth his testicles for awhile. Jareth felt the warm wet sucking, tongue manipulating his scrotum. His hands moved all over Paul’s shoulders and head in absolute desperation… this young man really did know how to drag ecstasy out to the last millimeter…

Paul’s hands continued to slide up and down Jareth’s thighs, gripping his pelvis, reaching up to his breasts, rubbing them, pinching the nipples like Jareth had wanted; then finally his mouth took Jareth’s blood-throbbing prick and began working in earnest. He sucked, he tugged, he twisted, he tongued… vigorously, so vigorously. Both of them, breathing erratically, hearts pounding, sweat pouring, exuding energy, exhausting themselves; and Jareth felt orgasm just a moment away…

Then without warning, Paul’s middle finger thrust deep into Jareth’s ass at the same time that he rammed his mouth down hard onto Jareth’s prick.

With a yell of excitement, Jareth let loose, and once again within two hours hard blinding orgasm exploded in his loins and he rammed and rammed and rammed, and thick warm semen squirted into the young man’s mouth, he wouldn’t have thought he had any left after that first hard fuck up Paul’s ass. Both hands took Paul’s head, held him tightly to control the orgasm to its last lingering second. Through half-open eyes he saw Paul swallow, and a tiny shiver of pleasure tingled through him. He wanted to own this young man.

Paul grabbed a quick breath through his mouth, then sucked again hard, trying to allow Jareth as long an orgasm as possible. His eyes were closed in concentration as his wet tongue massaged the penile head and licked all the fluid that leaked from the opening.

Finally slowly, the sensation faded, and Jareth looked at the youth working between his legs. He smiled to himself. The boy might be shy and inexperienced, but for having only met Jareth a few hours before, he was certainly willing to try to please, yet he didn’t come off as a promiscuous slut… not at all like one particular forty-two-year-old faggot whore. Jareth’s grin widened at the humorous but true perception.

He stroked Paul’s hair, Paul’s face, felt the heat steaming from Paul’s skin as well as his own. Paul did seem effeminate after all; at first Jareth hadn’t thought so, but more and more he noticed mannerisms, facial expressions, not to mention the young man’s make-up which was, albeit conser­vative and certainly far from garish, but nevertheless feminine. Yet the affectation seemed uncon­scious and natural, not the cliché-affected-drag-queen-camp which Jareth had seen and dealt with way too many times and disliked with a passion. In contrast, Paul’s manner was obviously that of a man who young in life had been relegated to the feminine rôle and had been treated like a woman all his life, and had accepted that as natural and normal; and Jareth, surprisingly to himself because of his distaste for male queens and disinterest in women, found himself powerfully attracted to this delicate young man.

Once more Jareth combed fingers through damp pink silk. That fascinated him and he didn’t know why. The boy aroused him more and more. Who could possibly have planned such a fortui­tous, chance, crossing of paths?

Emil. Emil must have foreseen this – not even Jareth would have guess that a gaunt feminine young male would arouse such crazy obsession as to set his brain on fire – Emil must have known. Evidently Emil knew him better than he knew himself. The thought amused Jareth greatly.

Apparently reading Jareth’s mind, Paul slid forward to lie on top of him, took two handfuls of Jareth’s hair and kissed him full on the mouth – more confidence than the young man had exhibited up ‘til now. Jareth enjoyed that. He could taste his own semen on the boy’s lips and tongue. Sensu­ally he tongued Paul’s wet mouth, licked the salty mucus from Paul’s tongue and swallowed some of his own fluid. He could feel the bumps of Paul’s nipples prodding against his own soft breasts. He reached down to Paul’s sex organs pressed against his own; the boy’s prick was firm and swollen from the erotic act of sucking Jareth to orgasm.

“Come on,” Jareth smiled close to Paul’s face, eyes drifting closed. “I’m exhausted, let’s go to bed – I don’t think I can last another minute.”

. . . . .

 _to be continued_ …


	5. Chapter 5

Again his hands slid lightly over Paul’s ribs, their lips lingered, then both of them climbed wearily to their feet and worked their way tiredly to the bed­room. Jareth brushed a casual hand across Paul’s bare buttocks. The touch, even light as it was, drew a reaction from Paul. Jareth grinned, then fell back heavily onto the bed. His left leg rubbed across the wet spot left on the satin bed-cover from their first encounter – he ignored it, no matter, he’d have it laundered tomorrow.

Paul stood by the bed, close to Jareth. A vacuous expression of floating somewhere inches above solid ground glassed the young man’s half-closed eyes. Jareth watched him lazily. Jareth organ had gone limp and flaccid, while scrawny pale effeminate Paul’s now dominated hard and erect.

Casually Jareth flicked it with a finger. “Do you want to do something about that now, Paul?” he suggested huskily.

Paul’s consciousness returned to earth. His gaze switched from the older man’s body to his own. “Oh… yes…” he blurted, as though he hadn't noticed his own erection before, “… Yes, I will…” And putting both hands to it, he prepared to gently masturbate himself to ejaculation.

“No… wait…” Jareth interrupted with a smile, laying a warm hand on Paul’s. “Why don’t you take me, Paul? – see if you like me as much as I like you?”

“Oh…” Evidently the idea of switching rôles hadn't occurred to the young man before. “… All right, if that’s what you’d like…”

“Paul…”

“Yes?”

Jareth’s touch slid up Paul’s arm, felt the smooth softness of his white skin. “Let me guess. You’re not used to love-playing the masculine part, are you? I’ll wager your ex-lover always fucked you but never let you fuck him in all of ten years.”

A tiny tightening of the lips – a smile of embarrassment, not humor – tugged at Paul’s facial muscles, and he looked down at the bedspread again. “That’s true, I suppose,” he admitted. “Tommy let me take him a couple of times, but most of the time, he’d tell me to play with myself so he could watch and get hard, and then he’d take me… he always called me” – voice dropped to a shamed whisper – “his pretty little bird… his little girl…”

“Did you like that?”

A self-conscious shrug, pale cheeks flushing, obviously the effects of half-a-bottle of wine precipitated this confession of humiliation. “I don’t know… whatever Tommy wanted, I always… let him do…”

Jareth’s eyes gazed over the young man possessively. “Then tell me something else as well: has Tommy’s ‘pretty little bird’ ever had a woman of his own?”

The pink head shook slowly. “No… although once a woman played with me... I was six­teen… and then when I was twenty-one, I did like a girl, and we saw each other for a few weeks until Tommy found out… he raged and threatened me… he would never really hurt me, but he got very very angry…”

“How old is Tommy?”

“He’s thirty-eight, he’s ten years older.”

Jareth wanted the youth so badly.

“Did you like being Tommy’s pretty little girl?” he asked again pointedly, and Paul’s face tightened.

“No,” the young man finally gathered enough courage to admit, “… no… I don’t know… I’m a full-grown man and I’m not just a child… but Tommy won’t let me be a man… I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man… I don’t want to be a girl…”

“So you finally became brave enough to break away from him, but you had to come all the way to America to do it.”

Paul didn’t answer. Instead he bent down to kiss Jareth’s limp cock.

“Then show me you’re a full-grown man,” Jareth urged softly. “Act like a man to me.” He rolled over onto his belly, then drew his knees up underneath, head down, arms stretched forward across the bed in an obsequious position.

“Take me, Paul,” he whispered, eyes closed. “This way.”

Paul hesitated at committing an unfamiliar act. Jareth said nothing, remained motionless, awaiting Paul’s penetration.

Finally cautiously, sliding an arm around Jareth’s waist, Paul prodded his organ into Jareth’s cleavage, attempting to manipulate it into the older man’s opening. A sigh of pleasure escaped Jareth’s breath, how he enjoyed the stimulation of prodding… that was one pleasure he enjoyed give and receiving. His breathing increased, shallow and fast, and he was keenly aware of Paul’s nervous trembling respiration. He felt Paul’s hardness rubbing, pressing, trying to gain entrance, ramming more vigorously now, but the nervousness prevented successful penetration.

Reaching back, Jareth touched Paul’s genitals, then found his own hole, inserted a finger into himself, groaning with the first pleasure of penetration, then helped Paul guide his desperate organ just inside the opening. Both of them released trembling excited moans. That was a powerful stimu­lant which almost never failed to erect Jareth’s cock, except today Jareth was totally drained now – he wouldn’t be able to get it up again for some time again no matter what Paul did to him. Still, the sensation jagged his brain with electric pleasure.

Then Jareth resumed his submissive posture while Paul wrapped two thin arms around his body and began to work deeper, in and out, a little deeper each time. Jareth’s hips undulated in rhy­thm to Paul’s pumping, sliding down onto Paul’s organ as Paul pushed it farther and farther into Jareth’s rectum… _ecstasy dear god ecstasy_ … pressure stimulation working deep inside… he could not stand the brain-searing insanity… surely he’d lose his mind with such erotic pleasure… Paul was working frantically now, hard, fast now, gasping for air, mouth open, intently obsessed with his pum­ping, wet hands gripping Jareth’s hips, sweat dripping, drenching his body, both their bodies, as he rammed repeatedly into Jareth’s slick moist opening. He was in all the way now, pounding as hard as he could, all six inches of his prick, from tip to base, in and out, in and out, vigorously, even more vigorously than necessary, so that Jareth’s body was rocking hard; Paul breathed vocal half-sobs, his fingers clutching Jareth’s pelvis painfully hard. Three minutes, four minutes, ramming and ramming, pounding and pounding, but with no ejaculation in sight.

“… please…” Paul begged out of breath, “… I can’t do it… please… it’s not happening… it’s just not happening…” Sobs of frustration and exhaustion broke in his throat. “… please… god help me…I can’t do it...” and he rammed and he rammed.

“It’s all right,” Jareth soothed. “You’re trying too hard. Relax.”

“I can’t! I just can’t!”

“Come on… it’s all right…” Coaxingly Jareth reached a hand back to stroked the young man’s moist trembling buttock and thigh. “Come now, why don’t you let go for awhile. Lie down, relax.”

With a moan of release, Paul collapsed down against him; Jareth could feel Paul’s wet face against his shoulder and neck. Then Paul pulled out of Jareth’s opening and fell onto the bed on his back beside the older man, breathing hard and uneven.

Stiffly Jareth straightened his legs, stretched out on his belly, and turned his face toward Paul. Paul was staring up at the ceiling, expression serious and dead. Jareth glanced down: Paul’s erection was gone., Well… so be it… they’d had a very full evening anyway.

For awhile they just lay there motionless, catching breath, quieting emotional stirrings. Jareth’s hand lay on Paul’s arm: he could feel Paul’s trembling gradually lessen, although it didn’t cease, but that was all right too.

… damn, he hadn't fucked so much and so hard in such a long time! He hadn't been so tho­roughly drained in such a long time either. With his patrons he always made sure they got their money’s worth, and he could always fake if necessary, though he rarely had to, but repetition neces­sarily breeds ennui, and he hadn't received deep satisfying stimulation in a very long time. Granted, even with Paul, this absolute total ecstasy would never again be repeated; however, he and Paul had the promised of a lot of good times ahead of them.

Paul was not asleep yet, but at least he was resting. He did not attempt to return Jareth’s light gentle caresses on his arm. Then abruptly he got up from the bed and went into the bathroom to wash the taste out of his mouth and use the toilet one more time.

Jareth took the opportunity to rearrange the bed-covers and climb into the bed ready to sleep. Paul returned in a moment and climbed in beside him. Contentedly Jareth watched him, this inno­cently self-consciously sensual young man, then moved his head closer on the huge king-size pillow to breathe in the young man’s scent and enjoy the closeness, and he pulled the sheet over both of them.

And then he lay there, body stretched out against Paul’s, his arm draped over Paul’s body, his face touching Paul’s hair; he took the liberty of one last kiss against pink silk, and then he stayed there just like that and fell asleep.  
* * * * *

Buzzing somewhere – inside his head? – no, outside, yes, coming from the bathroom, an elec­tric shaver, his electric shaver.

He woke up alone in bed, twisted in the bedclothes. Paul was in the bathroom already – Jareth could see him standing in front of the basin shaving (he wondered how much of a beard Paul had to shave), then the shaver turned off and the water faucet gushed on.

… damn, what a night! he wouldn’t be up to another blow-out like that for quite awhile, at least not until tonight! _thank you Emil, thank you, partner, I’ll give myself to you forever in return, I promise, I’ll be your slave for life!_...

Damn, he had to get up and face the day now… and the ledger books which waited patiently in his office. He’d immerse Paul in the paperwork today – thank god he had someone to assist now! – and he would try very hard to keep his mind on the training and not the trainee!

With an unwilling groan, Jareth threw the covers off, then climbed off the bed and strolled into the bathroom. Paul had already showered – the humidity in the room was stifling.

Paul sat at Jareth’s dressing table across the room, with the mirror lights turned on while he fingered through Jareth’s make-up collection to pick out what to borrow for himself. In the mirror Jareth saw for the first time Paul’s natural face devoid of affectatious greasepaint and color, and it was the face of a good-looking young adult male, not girlish, not adolescent. It was what Paul had professed to desire. Jareth found it no less attractive, if not moreso.

“You don’t have to paint yourself if you don’t want to,” Jareth suggested. “You look fine without it.”

Paul looked up at Jareth’s reflection. “You don’t mind my looking through your supplies, do you? I’m afraid I left mine at my hotel room.”

“Of course not. Good morning.” Jareth bent down to meet Paul’s lips for a greeting taste. “I just meant you’re very good-looking already, but you’re certainly welcome to my make-up if you wish.”

“What are your plans for me today?” Paul queried as Jareth stepped into the shower. “I would like some time to go into town and check out of my hotel room. I left my bags there too.”

“That’s fine,” Jareth agreed over the hiss of the shower. “I have business in town myself. We’ll drive in after breakfast, then later today I’ll introduce you to the books… we won’t put in eight hours today, though. The office staff always gets weekends off for themselves, or for entertaining clients if they choose.”

“I don’t mind,” Paul assured, “ – whatever you want me to do is all right.”

Jareth grinned to himself under the steaming needle spray. What he really wanted that young man to do, neither of them was up to right now. Ah well, tonight would be time enough. The sting­ing water massaged him soothingly… damn, his ass was sore! the youth had been so vigorous in his desperation that he’d probably ripped Jareth too, even though Jareth was used to being worked vigor­ously. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so satisfyingly satiated.

He stayed under the shower for a long time, soaping and rinsing and rinsing some more, any excuse to stand there and take time to luxuriate in the touch of his own hands on his own body; rubbed his hips, buttocks, thighs, fingered his genitals, slid up his ribs to his pectorals, gripped his upper arms in a self-hug, then massaged his own neck and shoulders pleasurably. His head tilted back under the spray, and he stayed like that for a long time, then finally turned off the water and stepped out. Water continued drip from the long ash-blond stands of hair down his back and chest until he squeezed the excess moisture out, then briskly toweled off his bare skin. Then not bothering to cover his nakedness, he moved over to the basin to shave. His shaver waited for him exactly where he had left it the day before, clean and ready to use. Paul had been very solicitous not to leave anything dirty or out of place when he’d finished in the bathroom.

Jareth would forgo the stylistic make-up and velvets and silks today. Ruffles and lace was his business outfit just as much as any IBM executive’s dark blue Brooks Brothers suit, and he wore various romantic luxurious sensual outfits through-out the work-week to conduct daily business and to entertain his patrons. But for any weekend in which he had no clients, and when he left the Club to run errands in the city, he chose to leave his face bare of powder and paint, and wear simple clothes – sportshirt and slacks.

Besides, when he went into town he didn’t necessarily desire to be recognized as a queer or particularly as the ‘madam’ of a well-to-do faggot bordello – although, regardless of his clothes, his unique long-short shag-cut blond tresses, just as obviously as Paul’s pink locks, branded him gay to all observers… and of course he would never even consider destroying his signature hair-style.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, Paul was already dressed, wearing the same outfit he’d arrived in yesterday, and his face as carefully and femininely made-up as before. The attractive male good-looks lay hidden once more beneath mascaraed and sensually shadowed eyes, blush-contoured cheeks and pink lips: an attractive effeminate face. Although last night he’d bemoaned being manipulated into the feminine rôle, evidently he felt more comfortable doing what he’d always done – he didn’t quite seem to know how to be a man.

Well, Jareth would teach him. Jareth would enjoy teaching him.

“Do I still have a job?” Paul questioned hesitantly.

Jareth was fingering through the clothes in the closet, looking for something appropriate to wear. “Of course you do,” he retorted, “why do you ask?”

“I failed the test last night.”

Jareth shot a backward glance. “What makes you think you failed?”

Paul shrugged shyly. “I lost everything at the end, I couldn’t finish, I was impotent for you.”

“It may come as a surprise you,” the older man commented wryly, “but even I ‘lose every­thing’ too sometimes. Even I’m not perfect.”

Paul’s lips pursed in mild irritation at Jareth’s gentle sarcasm.

“Of course you didn’t fail,” Jareth assured. “I’m very pleased with what you do know, and I’ll teach you what you don’t. I enjoyed your technique a great deal…” Lightly he fingered a strand of pink hair. “… and I like your hair.”

Paul smiled, that shy tug of lips again, and Jareth touched a finger under his chin to tilt his head back, then leaned over him and covered pink lips with his own. He could taste his own lipstick on Paul’s lips, then probed his tongue deeper into the young man’s mouth, kissed him deep for several long seconds before releasing him. Then Jareth stepped over to the dresser mirror to comb and blow-dry his hair into its apparently-uncombed style.

“So, you’ve been here five years?” Paul inquired of Jareth’s reflection.

“Mm hm.”

“What’s it like… working here?”

“Different than working in a hospital accounting department.”

“Yes, I guess so.” Paul smiled. Jareth’s reflection was watching him… intently. Paul’s ex­pression blended into amused curiosity. “What is it?” he asked abruptly.

“Your eyes.” All over again Jareth was enjoying Paul’s eyes in the mirror. Last night hadn't given him nearly enough time to study the fascinating bi-coloration. “They’re beautiful… very unique.”

Paul just grinned. “Not so unique, eh?” and met Jareth’s own mirrored set.

Jareth laid down the blow-dryer momentarily to reach up to the silky pink head leaning over him and pull Paul down for another lingering wet stimulating kiss

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 _to be continued_ …


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unfinished bit - there used to be more, but unfortunately those pages were lost to the winds of time...!

Paul asks out of curiosity, “do you know any other ‘proprietors’ in town?” Jareth says he doesn’t have a lot of run-ins with other brothels, but because of related business, he is acquainted with some of the other ‘houses’. Emil’s is the only gay brothel in town. He knows two women who own a couple of brothels nearby – he doesn’t bother to know any of the girls that work there, he’s not interested, but he tells Paul that the female hookers look down on the male hookers as even worse trash than themselves – it’s bad enough to be a gay male who doesn’t sell himself, but that male pro­stitutes have a lower social standing than even the female hookers. Paul asks, doesn’t it bother you, selling yourself all the time, humiliating yourself in front of other men? Jareth just shrugs, he makes several thousand dollars a week, he can dine on filet mignon and lobster every evening if he wants, he wears silk every day, and now he’ll have Paul in his bed every night… no, it doesn’t bother him a hair to humiliate himself in front of other men as often as they want, and he doesn’t give a damn about social standing anyway. But Paul should have a clear-eyed vision of what he’s getting himself into.

Paul has to go back to the hotel where he was staying and get his bags and check out, then he’ll move into the penthouse with Jareth. As they drive, Jareth discusses the operative cash-flow of the establishment: the cocktail lounge and restaurant and the studios.  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Paul asks, “Do I still have a job here even though I failed last night’s test?”

Jareth says “You didn’t fail, you passed top of the class.”

“How could I have?” Paul counters, “I lost everything at the end, I could finish.”

“I can’t finish all the time either,” Jareth assures.

“But you can whey you want, you can give it or receive it. I can only receive it, I don’t know how to give it. Tommy never let me do it to him, he just wanted to do it to me.”

That puzzles Jareth. “You mean in ten years you were never dominant in your love-play? You never experimented?”

“Yes, once or twice, Tommy allowed me to penetrate him, but he would never make it good for me, he would hurry me, and I’d lose it all, and then he would take me again.”

“And yet you stayed with someone that thoughtless for ten years?”

“Yes – we loved each other,” Paul replies genuinely, as though that explains everything.  
* * * * *

Over an hour had passed and Jareth still lay on top of the bed, still fully clothed. A night breeze from the open window ruffled the curtains and blew over him, and the chill felt good on his hot body, and he wanted Paul. He wanted Paul.

Paul had begged off of last night’s encounter, choosing instead to stay up with the accounts payable all night, and indeed he got a lot of work done; but now again tonight he requested another deferment because he was exhausted from not having slept the night before. Both valid excuses, both logical reasons, and both frustrating Jareth greatly, who’d been waiting all day to take his pretty young accountant to bed. Yet once again he lay by himself on luxurious sensual satin, and miserably alone.

Paul was a very good corporate accountant. He might not yet fully understand American business law yet, but he learned very quickly. He learned a lot of things very quickly. Jareth appre­ciated him a great deal. Jareth wanted him a great deal more.

As if on cue, the door to the penthouse opened. “I’m home,” Paul called out to whomever might be in the apartment. “Are you still up?” he called, just in case his first announcement hadn't awakened Jareth, if Jareth had been asleep.

“I’m in here,” Jareth called back from the bedroom.

Paul entered the room, went over to the closet to hang up his sweater.

“So, how goes it?” Jareth asked, eyes following his young protégé. Paul looked more alert and refreshed now than he had when Jareth had last poked his head into Paul’s office at noontime. “Have you balanced all the asset accounts yet? I’m sorry for leaving you such a mess.”

“Oh, I’ve straightened out most of it,” Paul assured, “Except for the Wheaton investments. I can’t make a damn bit of sense out of all their adjustments and retro-active credits and multiple trans­fers. I suspect they have an orangutan working their books. I’ve made an appointment to go over there tomorrow afternoon and talk with our investment broker face-to-face.”

“Can you speak orangutan?”

“I suppose I’d better learn,” Paul grinned, then strolled over to Jareth’s side of the bed. “You’re still dressed,” he noted, “ – why aren’t you asleep yet, don’t you know it’s almost eleven-thirty?”

“Mm hmm,” Jareth acknowledged neutrally. “I’ve been waiting for my student; however, I guess my student chooses not to have a lesson tonight.”

Paul was unbuttoning his shirt, looking down at his forty-two-year-old tutor. “Your student has other ideas for tonight.” An enigmatic smile teased pink lips.

Suspicion teased Jareth’s lips. “What other ideas, may I ask?”

Paul shouldered out of the pastel-blue material, exposing a thin white body punctuated with rose nipples that increased Jareth’s pulse and breathing; then casually dropped the shirt onto Jareth’s face. A surprised chuckle burst from Jareth’s throat as he jerked the cloth from his face and threw it aside; eyes glinted as he challenged the young man.

Paul was undoing his belt, unfastening his trousers. With warm pleasure Jareth watched the young man drop his pants. He reached an eager hand to pull down the boy’s undershorts, but without a word Paul took his hand and removed it from his loins, but not before Jareth’s fingers delicately a sensitive bulge.

Instead, Paul began to explore the edges of Jareth’s tunic, searching for a way into the black suede and wine-colored velvet. Jareth turned onto his side, his back to Paul, exposing the zipper down the center seam. Paul unzipped it, then pulled the heavy material from Jareth’s body, and tossed it aside with his shirt. Then desirously Paul bent down and kissed Jareth’s nipple.

Jareth groaned, arms wrapped around the gaunt youthful body, warm hands slid beneath thin material to grip and squeeze sensual buttocks.

“No,” Paul countered, withdrawing Jareth’s hands. “No lesson tonight.”

Obligingly but unwillingly, Jareth dropped his hands from Paul’s body. “What do you want me to do?” he questioned.

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Paul whispered. “I said I don’t want a lesson tonight.” Another kiss. “I’m going to do it all for you tonight. I’m going to teach my instructor.”

“Oh really?” Jareth sounded intrigued. “Teach me what?”

“You’ll see. Just keep your hands down.” Then turning his attention to Jareth’s boots, Paul gripped the suede with both hands, worked one boot off with great effort, then the other.

Jareth smiled at the young man intent on his task. So, the boy had been teasing him all day, deliberately frustrating him, but all to increase the pleasure tonight. Jareth watched him happily as Paul took the time to put their shoes in the closet and drop their clothes into the dirty hamper. The young man was so skinny! moving around the bedroom in his undershorts. Jareth grinned to himself. So, Paul thought he could teach the tutor something. Well, Jareth would be the judge of that. And as soon as the little tart got close enough…

Paul returned to Jareth’s side to remove his socks and strip off his black tights. Jareth waited until Paul was bent over him, fingers gripping the waistband of the tights. Then abruptly he grabbed Paul around the chest, pulled him down onto the bed, then clambered onto his back and straddled Paul’s shoulders, pinning him face-down across the bed-spread, while Jareth faced backwards toward Paul’s ankles, and pushed down Paul’s shorts.

“No!” Paul laughed and complained at the same time. “You’re not supposed to do anything. I want to do it all to you this time. Get off me!”

But Jareth just laughed, playfully rubbed his rear on Paul’s shoulders. “Oh, so you don’t like this?” he teased, glancing down over his shoulder. “Well, what do you think of this?” And bending forward, he lay down on Paul’s body, gripped the thin cool buttocks, spread them firmly, then deli­berately, forcibly, tongue-dived deep into Paul’s hole.

“Oh!” Paul cried in shock, moving beneath Jareth’s weight. “…omigod omigod omigod!!…” He squirmed erotically, while Jareth’s wet tongue worked inside him, pulled out to slide up and down the young man’s cleavage, then thrust back in again.

Sensation trembled between Jareth’s legs the more he rubbed body to body, the more he kneaded and separated white buttocks, the more hungrily he tongued the tight anus, moist warm hole. He craved to do this to the boy, clutching and working Paul’s buttocks, manipulating them, massag­ing them, while his own cock swelled and Paul’s erected – he briefly released Paul’s right buttock to reach between Paul’s legs and feel Paul’s hardness, then satisfied with Paul’s reaction, separated the youth’s ass again as wide as he could and squirmed his tongue around deep inside.

“…ogod!...” Paul laughed, trembling anxiously. “…ogod stop it please!” His laugh turned into a screech of pleasure as Jareth worked him more forcibly. “Jareth, please! I want to do it to you this time! please lie still and let me do it to you!...”

Abruptly Jareth broke oral contact and sat up again. “All right,” he agreed quickly, simply, deliberately leaving Paul on the edge of ecstasy. Paul groaned in desperation. Jareth grinned as he rolled off the warm body beneath him and stretched out passively beside Paul. Fine,” the older man acknowledged playfully, “I won’t touch you anymore. Do what you will with me.”

Paul was grinning too, as he threw off his underwear, then knelt on the bed beside Jareth’s supine figure and stripped off Jareth’s tights like he’d started to do three minutes before. Finally both men were naked, and now Paul hardly knew where to begin. Jareth just lay there, refusing to offer assistance or suggestions.

. . . . .

 _to be continued someday_ …

 


End file.
